I made it home too late and too tired to submit yesterday’s blog. Sorry about that. I attended a baptism party for the infant son of one of the girls who works in housekeeping. You may recall I was concerned about being able to hold up my end of the conversation with the other guests. The majority didn’t speak any English, or just a few words. I was surprised how much of my Spanish came back. I used to be really good at listening. I can understand conversations if people speak slowly enough for me to translate. Since I never learned verb tenses well enough to give me the confidence to speak fluently, I warned them if something was past tense I was going to throw my thumb over my shoulder. I managed to muddle through to the best of my disability, and since I was there for five hours, I guess I did okay.
They made this gringa feel very welcome and I really had a blast. One of the older women sitting next to me at the table asked if I was married. When I told her no, she leaned over to me and whispered, “Mexican men make very good husbands.” Surprisingly, for once I didn’t have a comeback.
I ate my first REAL Mexican food and listened to authentic mariachi music. Since my lame idea of Mexican music was salsa, I was expecting them to play Jennifer Lopez. I probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Speaking of the food…OMG, the mole, which is pronounced mo-lay, was delicious! I was not expecting its heat to build up in my mouth as quickly
as it did. All I could think of as I ate it was “you’re going to be SORRY!” I just knew it would come back to remind me I can’t tolerate spicey-hot food anymore. My friend told me the best remedy to quench the heat was beer with a lime in the bottle. I’m not really into beer, but I must say it worked. Either that, or by the time it took me to get the stupid slice of lime shoved down the narrow neck of the bottle, the heat had dissipated by itself.
Later, I was offered another bottle of beer. When I declined they assumed I was afraid to drink and drive home. They were nice enough to offer to have someone drive me home. Was I being set up as Mexican marriage bait? I explained one beer was enough; I’m just not into beer. When they saw me get up to use the ladies room, I’m sure they all thought I was lit by the way I walked. It was the shoes. You see, I had this high heel malfunction. Somehow, someway my foot seems to have shrunk an entire half a size, and try as I might I couldn’t keep the shoes on my feet when I walked. I’m sure I looked suspect, so I said something to this effect in my defense. They probably didn’t understand me so I guess I’ll
always be remembered as the gringa who got drunk on one beer and walked out of her shoes.
I stayed until after the cake was served. By then, I was as wound down as a clock. I’d been up since 5:30, worked out on both the elliptical machine and the treadmill, and then eaten my weight in Mexican food. “But, we haven’t danced yet. You can’t leave.” “Oh, no, I pleaded. I can’t even walk in these shoes; how can I dance in them?” I managed to drag myself home tired, but contented. In spite of the packed occupancy of the hotel this
weekend, I rolled into bed and immediately fell asleep. If there was a party going on next door through the loud speaker wall, I was too comatose to hear it. I hope I kept them awake with my snoring.
They made this gringa feel very welcome and I really had a blast. One of the older women sitting next to me at the table asked if I was married. When I told her no, she leaned over to me and whispered, “Mexican men make very good husbands.” Surprisingly, for once I didn’t have a comeback.
I ate my first REAL Mexican food and listened to authentic mariachi music. Since my lame idea of Mexican music was salsa, I was expecting them to play Jennifer Lopez. I probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Speaking of the food…OMG, the mole, which is pronounced mo-lay, was delicious! I was not expecting its heat to build up in my mouth as quickly
as it did. All I could think of as I ate it was “you’re going to be SORRY!” I just knew it would come back to remind me I can’t tolerate spicey-hot food anymore. My friend told me the best remedy to quench the heat was beer with a lime in the bottle. I’m not really into beer, but I must say it worked. Either that, or by the time it took me to get the stupid slice of lime shoved down the narrow neck of the bottle, the heat had dissipated by itself.
Later, I was offered another bottle of beer. When I declined they assumed I was afraid to drink and drive home. They were nice enough to offer to have someone drive me home. Was I being set up as Mexican marriage bait? I explained one beer was enough; I’m just not into beer. When they saw me get up to use the ladies room, I’m sure they all thought I was lit by the way I walked. It was the shoes. You see, I had this high heel malfunction. Somehow, someway my foot seems to have shrunk an entire half a size, and try as I might I couldn’t keep the shoes on my feet when I walked. I’m sure I looked suspect, so I said something to this effect in my defense. They probably didn’t understand me so I guess I’ll
always be remembered as the gringa who got drunk on one beer and walked out of her shoes.
I stayed until after the cake was served. By then, I was as wound down as a clock. I’d been up since 5:30, worked out on both the elliptical machine and the treadmill, and then eaten my weight in Mexican food. “But, we haven’t danced yet. You can’t leave.” “Oh, no, I pleaded. I can’t even walk in these shoes; how can I dance in them?” I managed to drag myself home tired, but contented. In spite of the packed occupancy of the hotel this
weekend, I rolled into bed and immediately fell asleep. If there was a party going on next door through the loud speaker wall, I was too comatose to hear it. I hope I kept them awake with my snoring.